


How do we go on?

by PericulaLudus



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Battle of Azanulbizar, Blood and Injury, Explanations, Friendship, Gen, Post-Battle of Azanulbizar, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 19:26:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5217857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PericulaLudus/pseuds/PericulaLudus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“How do we go on?” Thorin asked, his voice choked with tears he had not allowed himself to shed. “How can we just go on living after this?”</p><p>After the senseless violence of Azanulbizar there are so many questions, and very few answers. Balin tries his best to comfort his brother and his cousin, even when he himself struggles to understand the cruelty of their world.</p><p>My apologies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How do we go on?

“How do we go on?” Thorin asked, his voice choked with tears he had not allowed himself to shed. “How can we just go on living after _this_?”

Balin hesitated. How could he answer that? How could he hope to have any answers when he himself was struggling to comprehend the carnage of the waning day, was not sure he could ever make sense of it? This battle was so far beyond anything he had ever experienced, even after years of brutal warfare, in fact there was not a single Dwarf alive today who had seen something like this before, none who knew just how you could go on living after this.

“We live in the memory of those we lost,” Balin said. His voice sounded hollow even to his own ears.

Thorin did not reply, but winced when he moved closer to their small fire. Gróin thought that his ankle was just sprained, but Balin suspected some part of it had indeed been broken. Even the rigidity of Dwarven bones had not saved them today.

Seeing his friend shiver, Dwalin shrugged out of his own furs and draped them around Thorin’s shoulders.

“I’m always warm,” he said when Thorin made to protest and Thorin nestled into the warmth gratefully.

For a moment, the three of them just sat in silence, staring into the flames of their small fire. There should have been four of them. Four cousins, together since the very beginning of this dreadful war. Four, not three. They had not spoken about it. Thorin had not mentioned Frerin’s name, but the image of him emerging from the forest, bearing his younger brother’s corpse in his arms... it was a firebrand upon Balin’s mind. Dwalin had walked right behind him, so strong for one so young, strong enough to carry the body of their father. Maybe it made his failure to comfort Thorin in his time of need if not excusable though at least understandable that he had mourned his own father, had clung to his own brother. It was easier to comfort Dwalin, open and emotional as he was. Tears had formed furrows in the grime and dirt that covered his face where the first fluff of a beard was just beginning to sprout. Dwalin cried, and Balin held him and cried with him. The orphaned sons of Fundin united in their grief. Thorin only had Thráin. Thráin, bleeding from many wounds, only had his anger. Anger at their losses, anger at their failure to rout the Orcs from Moria, and above all anger at the loss of his younger son.

“It wasn’t even worth it,” Thorin said very quietly, curling in on himself, his head barely visible over Dwalin’s furs. “So many have died and we have nothing to show for it... we will just go back to Dunland and continue to eek out a living there. We have failed them already.”

“Don’t say that, lad,” Balin answered and reached out to put a hand on Thorin’s shoulder. Thorin flinched as if he had hit him and Balin withdrew his fingers. “In the end we prevailed, we won the battle and Azog has been slain. Your grandfather has been avenged.”

Thorin looked at him then, his eyes glittering in the sparse light of the flames and his face sharply silhouetted against the blackness of the night.

“And how many more do we need to avenge now, Balin? How many have died today with sons and grandsons, with fathers and brothers to avenge them? How many feuds have just started? It never ends, Balin.” He stopped and took a deep breath. “Is that how we honour their memory?”

“Adad wouldn’t want that,” Dwalin supplied. “And...” He hesitated. “He wouldn’t want that either.”

They all knew he had just barely avoided saying Frerin’s name. They also knew that Frerin’s name was not to be spoken. It was probably wrong to follow Thorin’s unspoken rule, he probably should have done something, but Balin was reluctant to torture Thorin even more when it was so apparent how much he was suffering already.

There was so much suffering around them. The darkness had muffled the sounds somewhat, or maybe that was just Balin’s utter exhaustion, but the cries of the wounded and the moans of the dying were still there, a cacophony of death played in agonising concert throughout the vale of Azanulbizar. Small fires for those who had already been bandaged up, who had survived the battle and were relatively certain to live through the night. Large, roaring fires for those who had not been so lucky, healers tending to them as best they could with their limited supplies. Darkness for those who had lost their fight. Balin knew that outside the small circles of light there were hundreds of corpses, thousands quite possibly. There had been so much blood. They had waded in it. You’d think he would know by now, that he had realised just how much one body could bleed, but the puddles of red or black still shocked him. Now the whole valley was covered in it, the ground slick with it, the stone infused with it, their clothes, their bodies dirty beyond belief, but the river contaminated with it, with dead bodies, water only to be taken from the springs, fresh from the mountain, a small blessing from Mahal for his suffering children.

Dwalin had found clean water for them, only a small canteen full, but they had all drunk thirstily tonight. In the end there had been enough for Thorin to wash his hands and he had done so eagerly. His arm was broken in multiple places and his own blood was covering him, but Balin knew that it was not that which he was desperate to wipe away, it was the blood of his brother’s fatal injury. Thorin scrubbed frantically, gritting his teeth against the pain of jarring his fractured bones, but it was not until Dwalin took his hand and gently cleansed each finger, that he found some small measure of relief in the act.

“Why us, Balin? Why do our people have to suffer so much? First the dragon and then exile, and now the Orcs...”

Much could have been said of stubbornness and arrogance, but it served no purpose, not now, not here in the immediate aftermath of this great battle, so Balin kept these thoughts to himself.

“We are fighters,” he answered instead. “We are steadfast and battle-hardened and pose a much bigger threat than other people.”

“So why do they insist on fighting us? Why do they kill our warriors if they know our strength? Shouldn’t they cower from our might? We gathered huge armies. How much more do we need to do to subdue them?”

“It is not a matter of strength alone,” Balin answered carefully. “You might be able so squash a bug with strength, but a show of strength will not deter any intelligent species. Dwarves, Elves, Men or Orcs, we all keep fighting for as long as we have a cause.”

Thorin snorted derisively. He was hunched over, cradling his shattered arm against his chest, his voice quiet but stern.

“What reason did we ever give them to attack us? They are monsters, killing for the joy of it!”

“You would not ask if you had grown up in Gundabad,” Balin said before he could stop himself.

“But they murdered my grandfather!”

Dwalin moved closer to Thorin. He was on his side in this argument.

“And how many grandfathers did we murder in return?” Balin asked, shuddering as he remembered the carnage of the sacking of Gundabad that he had witnessed when he was Dwalin’s age.

“They were guilty,” Dwalin said.

“Were they? So many leagues from Khazad-dûm, how many of them were likely to be involved in the murder of Thrór?”

“But they are Orcs,” Thorin spat.

“And still they mourn their grandfathers just the same as we do. They do not take the destruction of their homes lightly, a fate that all the Dwarves of Erebor should understand. Kill any warrior in battle and his sons will cry over their father’s body.”

A choked sob came from Dwalin and Balin reached out for his brother, drawing him close.

“The questions you ask are not new,” Balin continued, thankful for the long conversations with his father and uncle, both calmer and more considerate than their royal cousin. “They are asked in caves and houses, and around fires in all the lands. How to honour the memory of the fallen is an age-old struggle... and most don’t have your wisdom, Thorin. Most insist on revenge.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, a silence punctuated by the noises of the camp around them. They would be an easy target here, despite the many guards, but they could not move on, not with all the dead and wounded in their host. Tonight they trusted the luck that had already failed them so often. More than that, Balin trusted the knowledge that the Orcish forces were in even worse shape. A few miles and some layers of rock, that was all that separated them tonight, both armies shrouded in grief and desperate to tend to the wounded and the dying.

“How can we live in a world like this?” Thorin asked once more.

Because it’s the only one we’ve got, Balin wanted to say. He did not feel qualified to answer any of these questions. Who was he after all? Just another scared boy in the night; just another who had been drawn into the life of a warrior too early, who had done too much, but had never learned how to survive it. He was desperate for his father’s wisdom now. His uncle was still alive, but Gróin was busy with the wounded, a duty much more important than comforting scared dwarflings. So it fell to Balin to be strong and wise that night, to give what little comfort he could in the overwhelming aftermath of the battle.

“The world is what you make it. It is not just shaped around you like metal on Mahal’s anvil. You have the power to change this world, Thorin, we all do. Maybe just in small ways, but we do. You can build a world that is worth living in.”

Thorin was throwing small twigs into the fire, watching them burn.

“What is there even left to live for?” he asked eventually. “Why would I even want to shape the world?”

Balin tightened his grip on Dwalin’s shoulder. He knew his own reason for living.

“You have much to live for; your people need you, now more than ever,” Balin said quietly. “And you have a sister to return to. Build a world for her to grow up in, a world where she can know peace, and maybe even prosperity.”

A shudder passed through Thorin and he shielded his eyes with his uninjured hand. He drew deep breaths, trying to steel himself against the renewed onslaught of grief. No tear escaped him, but his thin body started to shiver uncontrollably. Dwalin unceremoniously dragged him across the small space between them. Thorin made a choked sound as his foot was jostled, but did not resist as Dwalin settled him between his splayed legs and leaned him against his chest. Dwalin carefully draped his arms around Thorin, sharing what warmth and comfort he had to offer.

They sat there in the dark, enveloped by the horror of the battle and the war as a whole, daunted by the task in front of them, but strengthened by their companionship. Maybe they would indeed rise to be the architects of a different world, a world built on friendship rather than warfare. Maybe. Maybe they would live to see a merrier time, a time in which cheer and song replaced tears and the clamour of battle.

Balin gently ran his fingers through his brother’s hair, matted as it was. Gróin had shaved a small patch of hair at the back of his crest to be able to suture the long cut that had bled so much. Balin’s hand ghosted over the fresh stitches, then mussed the dirty strands of hair. Many teased Dwalin for his ridiculous hairstyle, but Balin understood... he knew that Dwalin wore the crest to make himself look taller and more fearsome, to hide that deep inside he was still a scared little boy, a young page taken into a war so much bigger than anything he could ever have imagined when he was staging battles with his tin soldiers. A page soon promoted to a healer’s assistant, forced to see so much blood and death at such a young age, but steadfastly doing his duty nonetheless. The things he had seen before he was even old enough to be apprenticed were enough to frighten any grown Dwarf. It was no wonder that he needed any defence he could muster, even if it resulted in that crest of hair that now lay limp against his skull.

Balin could have lost his brother that day; he had seen what Orcish weapons had done to Frerin’s skull. It was a blessing beyond belief that Dwalin had escaped with no more than a few cuts and bruises; one blessing in the midst of all this misery.

“It was all in vain,” Thorin said. “We won today, but the Orcs are not beaten. In the end, evil always prevails.”

Balin shook his head. “You don’t know whose victory we facilitated by decimating their forces today. Thousands of their warriors have been cut down, their general slain. They will not recover from this, not within one generation or even the next. Some army on some distant day will be able to beat them once and for all. Evil might prevail, but as long as we are still here and we still stand up for what we believe in, good prevails as well.”

“I’ll never give up,” Thorin said and they all knew that he thought of his brother. “I will always stand tall and if Mahal is willing, I’ll be in that army on that distant day and I will vanquish them once and for all.”

“I’ll be there with you,” Dwalin added sleepily, and Balin gently squeezed his shoulder. These two had some future in front of them and even though this day might seem like the end of the world, looking at them filled Balin with some hope that the sun might yet rise tomorrow, that it might rise and find a world that was not entirely desolate and dead.

“We all will,” he said. “You have made an impression Thorin, and there are many eager to follow you to whatever future.”

“I’ll make it a good one, I promise.”

Thorin sounded at once like a grizzled general and like a petulant child. A great king of Dwarves caught in the body of a much younger man, not even at the end of his apprenticeship. Dwalin tightened his grip around Thorin’s waist, silently showing his support. They were just boys but they were setting the course for the future of the Longbeards. Their leaders might be huddled around a different fire, but Balin was certain that the events of real importance were being decided here, in a cluster of frightened adolescents.

“I know, Thorin, and you won’t carry the weight of that future alone.”

Dwalin buried his head in his brother’s shoulder, sighing contentedly, even as Thorin nestled against his chest, allowing himself to be held tightly. Soon Dwalin was snoring softly in the middle of their small group. One group of many that had spoken whispered promises of better days today, even as the weight of grief and pain threatened to crush them. Together, they would build a life worth living.

Balin woke frequently that night, a few times on his own account, but mainly because Dwalin was tensing and whimpering in his dreams, without doubt reliving the events of the day even as he lay sleeping. Thorin never slept. He kept watch through all the long hours of the night, despite the circle of guards that surrounded their camp. Even as the fires burned low and the cries and moans of the wounded and the dying faded into the mist, his bright eyes would occasionally meet Balin’s. He had fought more fiercely than anybody else, had done, seen, and suffered so much, and yet he never gave in to exhaustion, never let himself sink fully into Dwalin’s comforting embrace. Thorin kept watch and he would do so for all the remaining decades of his life. It would be years until he had a full night’s sleep again.

The following morning they rose early, even though they were exhausted beyond belief. The cold and wetness had entered their very bones along with the fatigue of a long war, and they were slow to move, dragging their weary bodies up from the tattered blankets and bare rocks that had been their bed for the night. The fog lingered on the desolate plain and staggering figures emerged from it like ghosts. Even their faces were those of ghosts, pale and haunted. They were all ghosts in the mist, one way or the other. But the sun knew no mercy, rising indifferent to their fate, illuminating the scene with unabashed cruelty.

Balin looked upon the boys next to him. They were so young. They were all so young, himself included, but Balin felt older than Durin the Deathless himself that morning. Thorin’s eyes looked as dead as those of the corpses that were still strewn across the battlefield. Balin wanted to hold him close, to give him shelter, but the little peace they had enjoyed during the night evaporated with the morning dew and he knew that Thorin would never let him do so, would never allow himself to enjoy such comforts again.

Dwalin stood up, stretching gingerly as his overworked muscles protested. His hair was matted with blood and his clothes were rigid with it, black and red now darkened so much as to be undistinguishable. He held out a hand to Thorin, dragging him up by his uninjured arm. Balin watched his brother’s fingertips ghost over Thorin’s forearm for just a moment, knowing instinctively how much tenderness his friend would be able to bear.

“I should... go to... my father,” Thorin said. His voice was raspy and somehow deeper than before, but he was gnawing on his lower lip the way he had done as a child.

Balin just nodded, he knew it was futile to resist Thorin’s determination. A son of Durin for sure, in all his stubborn glory.

“Mahal be with you,” he told him instead. Thorin’s face was unfathomable.

“Mahal has not been with me for a long time,” he said and turned, slowly limping towards his father, carrying the weight of the three peaks of Khazad-dûm upon his shoulders.

Dwalin made to follow him, but Balin held him back, relishing the fact that he was still permitted physical contact with his brother.

“Stay,” he said. “That is his path to tread.”

When Dwalin resisted, he explained “Be here for him when he returns, he’ll need you then. For now, let him demonstrate his strength.” To himself as much as to his people, he added in his head. Thorin would not permit himself any weakness and it would be easier for him to keep those walls up around his soul while he was alone.

“Then... what’s my path?” Dwalin asked, sounding so forlorn that Balin was reminded once more that he was just a boy, not even old enough to be apprenticed yet. Certainly not old enough to see such horrors, to commit such heinous acts of violence, and never old enough to return bearing his father’s mutilated body.

Balin embraced his brother, squeezed him as tightly as he could, not sure whom he was comforting more. He held on to him, his baby brother, his companion for most of his life. They had their differences, many of them, but Frerin’s fate had proven just how fragile the bond of brotherhood truly was, how easily a young life could be ended, and Balin thanked the Maker that he could still feel his brother’s beating heart today.

They stood like this for a while, just enjoying each other’s presence, united as they were in their grief and exhaustion. Never one for sentimentality, Dwalin soon started to wriggle. Balin gently knocked their foreheads together, careful to not touch Dwalin’s freshly sutured wound as he pushed his brother’s head down. He really was unreasonably tall for such a young lad.

“Your path lies with Thorin, but you have to allow him some space every now and again. He needs a chance to gather his thoughts without you interfering,” Balin explained. “And I could quite use your help today; there’s much work to be done and I...” His voice cracked “I’d really like to have you with me.”

Dwalin’s grey eyes were in equal measures full of sadness and trust, but underlying it all was a steel that showed maturity far beyond his age. These past years had turned the boy into a man long before his time. He had been just a scrap of a dwarfling when this war had started, but soon he was following his father and uncle as a page, as was befitting of his status as one of the line of Durin. The tall youth that stood in front of Balin now was far removed from the boy he had left behind in Dunland before the sack of Gundabad.

They worked together that day, tirelessly going about their endless task. The work brought a measure of comfort and order to the hours, and yet looking back that day would always seem like a nightmare. Indeed, Balin would return to it frequently in his dreams. He would never forget the labour they did that day, the sons of Fundin in the valley of Azanulbizar.

They recorded the names of each and every fallen warrior before they were given to the flames. It was indispensable work, but necessity did not make it any less heart breaking. Half of their forces had died, either in the battle or during the night. Half of the thousands that had seen the sun rise the previous day now lay dead in front of the ancestral home of their people, a home that now seemed forever barred to them by the rumour of an ancient horror. It was another insult added to exacerbate their pain that the caves were being held against them, forcing them to burn their dead against all custom and propriety. Balin wept when they placed Fundin on top of the pyre, feeling impotent in his inability to even grant his father a proper burial. As his father’s ashes were scattered in the wind, Balin vowed that he would live to see Khazad-dûm reclaimed, that Fundin’s remains would not infuse the rock of an Orcish stronghold forever.

Even though their bodies were turned to dust and their weapons claimed by friends or relatives, the names of the dead remained. There were thousands of them, but each one was recorded. Balin kept the list of the dead for the Longbeards. As they had neither parchment nor writing implements, he carved their names into his leather belt in minuscule runes.

Rafnar son of Reidar

Kári son of Smári

Dreki son of Darri

Sörli son of Silli

Fafnir son of Reifnir

Thengill son of Yrkill

Dofri son of Dolli

Balin’s hand did not waver, his dagger as steady as his quill used to be in times of peace. He carefully wrote name after name, and with each line on the belt, another body was consigned to the flames. The scratch of Balin’s knife was the last reminder of their lives on this earth. It felt like the task of an executioner, not that of a scribe, but Dwalin was by his side through it all, helping to strip the fallen of their weapons, closing their eyes, and standing with his hand on Balin’s shoulder when his aid was not needed.

There were those whose names nobody knew. They kept their bodies to the side in the hope that somebody would surface who recognised them, a cousin or brother, or at least a friend or a neighbour. After all these years of fighting, everybody was known within the host, or had been before their army was decimated so drastically.

Then there were those that were beyond recognition. The first of these was a lithe fellow, quite possibly still very young. Balin felt bile rise in his throat when he laid eyes upon the Dwarf. His clothing was in tatters and so was his flesh. What had happened to the lad, Balin could not fathom, but his face had quite literally been torn to pieces. Even his mother would have been unable to identify him. The helpers did not dare to approach his body, barely even glanced upon the cruelly mutilated form.

It was Dwalin who stepped forwards, putting a gentle hand upon the dead Dwarf’s shoulder. There were no eyes to be closed, but Dwalin treated this unknown warrior with the same kindness he would have shown a dear friend. He searched him for weapons, but found none but a small, nondescript knife that nobody would recognise. Dwalin slipped it into his boot and quietly thanked the dead Dwarf before picking him up and carefully depositing him onto the stretcher to be carried to the fires. Balin stared at the leather belt in front of him, hesitating. It did not seem right to not record a name.

“A son of Durin,” Dwalin said.

“What?”

“Write it. A son of Durin. We know that he died a son of Durin.”

The body had been retrieved from the forest, so it had been assumed that he was a Longbeard, but there was no way to be certain. But maybe Dwalin was right. Whoever this young fellow was, he had died a son of Durin in spirit if not in blood. Balin recorded several sons of Durin as the day went on.

Dwalin gave him his belt when his own had been filled with names. They would both carry this burden on the long road back to Dunland, would both be surrounded by the dead. Balin kept writing. He doubted he would ever have to consult the list. Those names would forever remain engraved in his memory. Another son, another brother, another father maybe. Face after face, name after name, and body after body. In the end the valley was completely bare of trees and over a thousand Longbeards alone had been entrusted to the fires. Over a thousand and yet they were all present in Balin’s mind. He would remember.

The stench of the dead clung to their beards and to their clothes, and the smoke of the pyres scratched their lungs and coated their skin. The air was full of death that night.

Thorin returned with the setting sun. He was limping heavily now, clearly unable to put weight onto his injured foot, but he still stopped at every single fire, exchanging a few words with each of the survivors. As he drew closer, Balin was able to make out the words. He was thanking them, was thanking them for their service and expressing his condolences, even as his father did not find it in himself to do so. Thorin took care of the people, and Dwalin took care of Thorin, waiting for him with a warm blanket and a hot bowl of broth, making him sit down and rest, putting his hurt foot up onto a rock and gently removing the boot. It was all very practical and they did not exchange any words of comfort, but Dwalin intuitively seemed to know what Thorin needed and was there to provide it. They washed their hands and faces with the little water they could spare. Beneath all the layers of sweat and tears, of mud, ashes and blood, three young Dwarves emerged, three friends, even if one of them was king in all but name.

Despite the desperation and devastation that surrounded them, the air was also full of hope that night.


End file.
